


Iota

by Phlegethon



Series: Elapsed [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Gold & Silver & Crystal | Pokemon Gold Silver Crystal Versions
Genre: Backstory, Drabble, Gen, Minor Violence, Pre-Game(s), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4031449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phlegethon/pseuds/Phlegethon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows their names, flashing red emblems in every newspaper and gleaming on every television screen with whispers flowing from ear to ear from region to region. </p><p>It's not the first time he's seen them with his own eyes, but it's the first time he's gotten a taste of how they really operate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iota

**Author's Note:**

> A look into how our resident violent executive joined Team Rocket in his younger years. A drabble I've just really had the urge to get out for a while, I suppose.
> 
> *Sidenote: You may find I refer to Proton as 'Chase' throughout the length of this! This is what I've thought his actual name to be, and is simply a headcanon of mine rather than the usual route of going with 'Lance'. It's in no way what everybody else should think.

He’s 17 when he has his first personal encounter.

He’s heard of them before, naturally. Whispers through the filthy cracked stone walls and announcements through glass screens of the storefronts he passes on his way to nowhere. Black and red emblazoned uniforms on street corners, intentions always of the illegal variety. Nobody goes a day without hearing about that team, the things they’ve done and the things they’ll continue to do.

2 years is a long enough time to get somewhat acquainted with the streets, especially when you have nowhere else to go. He’s learned both the hard way and the easy way, scars and bruises dwindling in number as time passes. He treats the thugs as teachers as good as any of the ones in the pretty brick-walled schoolhouses, the meaner ones giving the harsh lessons about getting caught via physical retaliation, and the softer ones giving gruff advice he takes with a few sour words in return. He’s a brat, but a dangerous one. 

Anybody can wave a sharp weapon from the depths of a baggy sweater around, but knowing how to use it is another story entirely. 

It’s a late night, and somebody else’s wallet hangs heavily in his front pocket like gold. His hands have gotten more nimble, quicker, after many consecutive successes and failures, improvement clearly seen by those who actually care enough to regard the teen with watchful eyes. Fingers are balled, shoved in the same hoodie pocket so that skin knocks against worn leather with every other step. Night is always better for this sort of things, eyesight dampened in the street lights. What really matters is if you’re quiet, less pressure on your feet, steps quiet and near impossible to detect when you reach up and snatch up whatever you think you can without much trouble.

On his shoulder perches his only companion, the only thing he managed to (and wanted) to catch after he found himself expelled from his own home. The first Pokemon he ever raised never came with him, sitting pretty at home with his parents as they probably enjoy their time without a troublemaker to tarnish their name with pilferings and violent outbursts that the other parents would gossip about.

The Zubat is fine enough. It’s not like he has any need or want to be a successful pokemon trainer like the kids who walk by with dreams bigger than they ever will be.

He hears them before he sees them, deep laughter and typical joking conversation. They appear at the end of the alley, walking past with bright hair hidden beneath caps and clothing as black as the night around them. Besides that, the only thing that stands out is the whips at their belts that gleam in the streetglow and the bright, definable red R printed on their chests. They don’t notice him at first, some scrawny kid dressed in usual hood-rat attire standing in the shadows, but the soft squeaking of the idiotic bat-like creature on his person gives him away. Their feet stop, Chase swears under his breathe, and he nearly decides to book it once they fix greedy gazes on the only other person around.

Unfortunately, he’s never really liked running.

Lips purse tightly as they change their direction, opting to approach with deliberately slow steps. They’re taller than he is, but this is to be expected. They’re fully grown men, he’s simply a teen who’s still got a few inches to grow. The alleyway is dusty, and he can taste it on his tongue as silence reigns in the dim light. The only movement at first is of eyes, those under hats and those beneath a hood that displays small wisps of green hair locking onto each other with a strange intensity. 

Chase clearly has no intentions of voicing anything first, face unimpressed with narrowed eyes. This in turn leads to the first voice being the smooth, smug tones that flow from the taller of the two men.

“Isn’t it a bit late for kids to be hanging around? Surely your mom is going to be worried you’re out past your bedtime.” The smirk on his face combined with his ignorant words sends a spark through highly flammable blood, lips slightly curling as teeth clench. When he speaks, he spits, each syllable dripping with venom.

“Fuck yourself.”

The other, smaller Rocket lets out a whistle, lifting the brim of his hat in mock appreciation for the attitude being displayed. 

“You kiss your mother with that mouth? Come on, kid. And here we thought you were smart enough to at least try and watch your mouth around your elders. That’s a little disrespectful, don’t you think? We can’t just let that fly.” One elbow nudges his companion, and the message gets across. Both of them straighten their backs, one running white gloved fingers over the long weapon attached to his belt. The other is held out, a gesture who’s intentions are made clear with the next sentence to hang in the air.

“We’ll take your little friend as an apology. That’s pretty fair. I’m sure you can go and get another pretty easily, so what’s the harm?” 

Eyes widen. Automatically, green irises slide to the Zubat on his shoulder, head cocking in confusion and chitters escaping it’s wide mouth. They wanted his pokemon. His.

That wasn’t gonna go over well.

Clearly, the two criminals weren’t planning on waiting around patiently for their victim to come to a decision and politely hand over the pokeball attached to his own belt. One hand was already reaching for it, centimeters, inches from the poor creatures face, but it takes those few seconds of stupid boldness for patience to snap and hands to fly.

A shocked yelp hits the air as a pale fist slams into the offender’s nose, not entirely bone-crushing but enough to send him stumbling back. A second to breathe isn’t allowed, for within seconds, the off-balance is taken advantage of as hands fist in a black uniform and send them both to the ground. Two figures crash to the concrete, startled noises coming out of both Rocket’s mouths. The one still standing freezes, confusion slowing his reaction time as he watches the street-kid they were planning on robbing start slamming his fist into his partner’s face without an iota of mercy or hesitation behind his blows.

Over and over and over again, skin meets skin, and in the process damage is done to both ends. Knuckles split, blood runs, and there is definitely a badly broken nose tossed into the mix. The creature that had nearly been kidnapped flaps it’s wings in the air, clearly used to the sight of it’s master resorting to physical force, and while it seems like hours, only a minute manages to pass before the frozen man actually does something.

“Alright, you little fuck–” Feet practically trip over each other as they hurry forward, whip yanked and in a steel-tight grip as he moves to grab the back of Chase’s shirt, but the moment words were spoken, the fist that had previously been driving into the face of his opponent dove into his pocket and pulled out a gleaming block of silver. It unclips with a soft noise, and the approacher stops once he spots the sharp end of a switchblade. 

The kid’s come prepared (never go anywhere around here without protection, brat, or you’re gonna fucking regret it one day), and the snarl on his face is purely animalistic in nature. His lips peel back from his teeth, small speckles of blood gather on his face like bright red freckles, and the gaze he sends the individual on his feet is the kind that sends spikes of ice through every cell of his bones.

For a kid, he sure knows how to send a look that could kill.

Seconds pass, the air heavy and uneasy, the unspoken dare lodging itself in a thick skull. Finally, a chest heaves, and the whip drops to the alley floor. He has no desire to get fucking stabbed by a teenager, and he shoots a quick glance to the groaning man who’s chest is currently being perched on. While more than a little pissed off and nervous, there’s no denying he’s somewhat impressed. Not a lot of people have the balls to outright attack a member of Team Rocket, but a temper is a dangerous thing, as evidenced by the way the person in question seems ready to start beating the shit out of his captive again.

Thoughts as to how to diffuse the situation fly by at the speed of light, hands raised in an ‘I surrender’ motion, a thought comes to mind. A stupid, risky one, but it might benefit them all in some way.

If he can get through to the little animal, that is.

“….That was…pretty good, you know. I sure wasn’t expecting that.” He takes another step closer, gaze flickering warily between the Zubat in the air and the knife-wielding teen who slowly lowers his weapon with a narrowed gaze.

“That’s a little more than good, actually. We could use someone who knows their way around like that. You’re pretty young, but we’ve got younger.” His hands wave in a ‘please listen’ gesture, subconsciously noting the fact he’s got all the attention on him now. “I mean, it’d be better for you than staying out here. It’s a job like any other, but it’d suit you. What do you think?”

A slim eyebrow quirks, and then the disbelief hits. He just beat his friend’s face in, and he’s offering him a job? A thumb runs across his weapon’s edge, pros and cons obviously getting weighed before he finally moves. Legs push up, finally releasing the pressure on the stomach beneath him, turning to fully face the situation-diffuser once he’s on his feet.

“Seriously?” It sounds like a sweet genuine question, but the faux curious look dies into a curling smirk.

“You’re a giant dumbass. You just want to make sure I don’t kick the shit out of your idiot of a partner, right?" A few steps to advance, sizing up his prey like an animal who's cornered his newest meal. "Come on. Just how stupid do you think I am?” A step closer, grip still tight around his weapon, prompting a hurried stumble backwards from the man in front of him. 

A snort slips from Chase’s lips before he finally stops in his tracks, stinging knuckles finally catching up to him. He resists the urge to wince as he slides his gaze back to the person on the ground with the slightest turn of the head. Lips slowly purse as silence seems to return to the atmosphere. Seconds tick.

It seems stupid. These guys tried to pick a fight they couldn’t win, but because they weren’t prepared for him to fight back. Kids don't usually fight back, or try and use their Pokemon to fight their way out of it. That much he knows. Yet, at the same time, the thought had never crossed his mind. He'd been busy with his own life, simply taking the newest news of their exploits with a grain of salt. While interesting, the prospect of actually joining such an infamous group had not once risen as an option until the moment he hears it spill from somebody else's lips in his direction. It's like waving a bone in front of a dog, it freezing to contemplate whether or not he should go for it.

Team Rocket is well-known. What they do is well known, every pokemon and thing they steal for their own benefit, every spot of grief they cause to the general population headline news. Their reputation is as nasty as it's members, criminals and crooks and small-time idiots willing to maim for the benefit of their own greater good. A full-time job dedicated to self preservation. 

He could steal what he wanted. Do what he wanted. Get paid. And people would fear him, or perhaps more specifically the logo printed on his front.

He could make a name for himself.

He’s already managed to leave a mark on these two in question, if the way sweat runs down the cheek of the idiot in front of him and slowly drips down his chin like he’s waiting in a dirty courtroom for a guilty verdict. A tongue swipes over dry lips, brows furrowed as he looks around at what he has.

Dirty alleys. A couple wallets, picked from morons who can’t pay enough attention.

He sees himself free, living more comfortably than the streets he’s been forced to live on could ever offer him, and that’s all it takes.

The blade closes with a click and returns to his pocket, nestled comfortably side by side with his earlier pickings, and a hand with split knuckles is held out with a warning glinting in green eyes.

“Keep talking.”


End file.
